Chivalrous (30 page)

“Yes. It h-has. You were . . . were gone. I knew not when you might return, and I did not wish to-to trouble you,” she managed to stutter.

“You mean my
child
has been
killed
.”

The words struck like a blow to her gut, and she gasped at the pain they inflicted.

Hugh stared straight down at her now with disgust emblazoned across his face. “I am the man. I am the noble. You should have waited for my return.”

He tore his fingers through his blond curls, then swiped his hand through the air. “'Tis not right! 'Tis not fair! You stole this decision away from me just like my tyrant of a father.”

Rosalind tried to think of any sentiment that might soothe him, any words that might defend her actions. But none existed. She buried her face in her hands and braced herself for whatever he might deservedly hurl her way.

“You are right, we could never marry. But we could have worked out some arrangement. I came near to loving you once. I would have provided for you. But you killed my child. I cannot believe this!”

Her heart shattered to a million pieces in her chest, leaving naught but a cold, gaping hole in its place. She would have sacrificed anything, even her position, even her reputation, to bring back her baby. Only she could not.

Clutching Hugh's arm, she begged him. “Please forgive me. You must—otherwise I shall never forgive myself.”

He ripped his arm from her grasp. His hands trembled, then fisted with resolve. “You thief! You harlot! You murderess! I shall never forgive you.”

With that awful pronouncement, he turned and stalked out of her life.

Yet Rosalind could hardly bring herself to care. She sank to the dirt road. Her chest throbbed with pain—but not at his rejection. Only at his harsh indictment.
Thief! Harlot! Murderess!
Those words would resound in her head for as long as she lived.

She'd had her fill of men. More than enough to last her a
lifetime. From now on she would seek only one thing—redemption from her heinous sin. Perhaps if she worked hard enough, gave her all for God, someday He might see fit to forgive her. Even if her baby's father never would.

Rosalind managed to scramble back to her feet. Clutching her aching chest and hunching low, she headed toward the cathedral.

She would begin her quest straightaway, lighting candles and whispering prayers for the eternal soul of her child who would never know life on earth.

Warner DeMontfort led his squadron of more than a hundred soldiers as they charged up the next hill. They had lain in wait until dawn just beyond the borders of the dukedom. Now they galloped straight east toward Edendale with great haste, so that they might beat any word of their attack.

Only at the border had they clashed with a small contingent, leaving none alive to tell their tales. If his intelligence served correct, soon they would meet a second line of defense, which they would likewise leave to soak the ground with their blood.

Then onward to Edendale and victory!

His cold heart nearly warmed at the thought.

“Who will fight for the grand prize of the fair Lady Gwendolyn and her dower lands?” the duchess called out once again following their recess from the tournament.

Allen clenched the arms of his carved chair tight, stopping himself from jumping to his feet. Desperately hoping that someone, anyone, might come to Gwendolyn's rescue.

The hulking Gawain paced the arena, staring down the common people in the stands. He raised his fists over his head to remind them all of his superior might—then cackled at their collective cowardice.

Would no David stand against this jackanapes of a Goliath? Would no one at all come to Gwendolyn's rescue?

This day had pulled Allen's nerves taut to the snapping point. How his heart ached to defend her. How his muscles strained to fight for her. Just when he thought he could not take it another moment, a lone figure dressed in chain mail entered the arena.

His hands loosened their grip on the chair as he awaited the
arrival of this new champion. He surged forward as he realized the figure was Gwendolyn herself.

Gwendolyn Barnes, holding her helmet under her arm and dressed once again as a valiant knight, took a knee before the duchess. She wore no surcoat, no colors at all, only her armor. Allen understood the message. This time, she fought for no one but herself.

“Arise, Lady Gwendolyn Barnes!” the duchess called with a regal shout.

“Your Grace, you said the contest is open to all. I ask for the honor of fighting for my own hand. I ask for the chance to choose my own husband, or even none at all.”

The duchess smiled to Allen and took a deep breath as she pressed her hands to her heart.

Relief rushed through Allen. Although he still feared Gwendolyn could not best Gawain, at least she had this one last chance of escaping him. Had he not wondered if a David might arrive on the scene? Gwendolyn herself, who had spent these last days praying fervently in the chapel, certainly fit that role. A woman of outstanding character who now sought God with all her heart. Courageous, faithful, a protector of the innocent.

A chivalrous knight by anyone's standards. It must have been his own confusion, his own guilt, that had ever caused him to doubt her.

He nodded his assent to the duchess.

“Absolutely you may fight for your own hand.” The duchess's gleeful voice echoed throughout the stadium.

Gawain just laughed. “You wish me to fight a girl now?”

“Absolutely not!” came a disgruntled bellow from the grandstands.

For the second time that day, Lord Barnes leapt onto the
field. He stormed toward Gwendolyn, yet the brave woman never cowered.

The baron grabbed her by the arm. “This girl is under my complete and utter authority. As both her father and her baron, I say she cannot fight.”

“That seems rather unfair, Lord Barnes. Can you offer any reason why she should not?” The duchess raised her quelling brow his way.

But the man did not waver. “Indeed I can. If she fights in this battle, who is to say that her valuable reproductive organs might not be injured. Is this not why we guard our women so carefully? Keep them in castles and away from . . .” He paused and shot an especially venomous glare the duchess's way. “Horses! Gwendolyn is an asset to my family and my name. I will not allow her to jeopardize herself nor our futures in such a ludicrous manner.”

He turned in entreaty to the stadium at large now. “The Ethelbaums are a fine, upstanding family. I would be honored to link my line to theirs. Do not rob me of this right!”

A general hum of assent filled the stands, although a few feisty females shouted their disapproval.

Allen turned to the duchess and the handful of council members seated behind her. “Is this horrid fellow correct? We pride ourselves in being so progressive.” But then he recalled his study of the extensive legal code and winced.

“I am afraid so,” Hemsley said. “The duke wished to change the law, but he was never able to gain enough support.”

“A man has the right to rule over his own home,” Fulton added, “including his wife, daughters, and sons who have not reached their majority. It has always been so, both here and throughout Europe. Although, to hear such a just statute twisted in this manner certainly does rankle.”

“It is neither just nor right,” the duchess grumbled for their ears only.

“Perhaps not,” the bishop said, “but I am afraid the time has come to concede defeat. We cannot strip a man—a baron, no less—of his right to rule his own daughter simply because we do not like his attitude.”

The baron, clearly growing impatient, hollered out again. “Your Grace, have I misplaced my trust in you? In the council? Have we all?” He swept a hand across the stadium.

The inherent threat in his words was clear. They could not afford to lose a strong leader like the baron to DeMontfort's side. Nor could they have him stirring up trouble among the common folks.

Duchess Adela bit her lip and lowered her chin in defeat. “How can I ever bring myself to utter the awful words?”

In that moment, a certainty surged through Allen, the likes of which he could no longer resist. “You shall not!”

Consequences be hanged!
Allen would do what he knew in his own heart to be right and deal with the aftermath later. He leapt over the rail and ran to stand at Gwendolyn's side. “I will battle for her! She does not need to fight for herself. I will be Lady Gwendolyn's champion and choose her mate.”

Fulton and Hemsley jumped to their feet. The bishop just dropped his head in dismay, his conical hat falling forward to shield his face.

“You shall not!” Fulton hollered. “We cannot risk your safety at such a vulnerable time for our dukedom.”

“Allow me to fight, or I swear I shall get on my horse and storm out of this place. You do not own me. I stay here only of my free accord. Someone must champion the Lady Gwendolyn, and it shall be me!”

At that the people stood and roared their support.

The duchess smirked to the council members. Fulton and Hemsley slowly retook their seats.

Gawain strode Allen's way with his jaw clenched tight. “I have bested you before, and I shall prove myself the better man once and for all. Let us not waste time. I long to see you lying beneath the tip of my sword.”

“And what of you, Lord Barnes?” the duchess asked.

“I . . .” The man trembled and a pulsing vein protruded from his red face. “If Gawain wishes to fight him, I will not stand in the way.” Although the gleam in his eye said he would gladly murder Allen with his own two hands.

“Sir Allen of Ellsworth, it seems you shall have your way.” The duchess offered her most grateful smile.

Joy burst forth in Allen's heart. This was right. He knew it. He would be no man's puppet, and he would finally have his chance to thrash Gawain!

Gwendolyn offered Allen a quick kiss on the cheek, but her father dragged her away just as she began to whisper something in Allen's ear. She wrenched herself from her father's rough grip and departed of her own volition.

In a flash, attendants scurried at Allen with the armor that had been readied for the common folk and topped it off with the North Britannian regalia of crimson, ivory, and black. As they strapped the blunted sword about his waist, a groomsman delivered Thunder to Allen. Once astride, he was handed a lance. The announcement was made, and he turned his horse to head to his appointed starting place.

Here he was, again, staring down the point of his lance at Gawain. This time he must win, not only to acquit himself, but to save Gwendolyn as well.

Gawain roared toward him with a new determination, a new ferocity, Allen had not seen before. Allen thrust his own horse
into action. They flew at each other. In the blink of an eye, their lances tangled and shattered. Allen held tight, praying with all his might that Gawain had fallen. But as he turned Thunder, he saw the man still sat astride.

With his typical preening swagger, Gawain taunted, “Come, Sir Allen. Enough playing about. Joust me in truth this time.”

Allen's attendant brought him a new lance, and he tucked it tightly to his side. This time he spurred Thunder first, and sped toward the arrogant knave.

But Gawain was ready. Their lances clashed again. Allen's flew from his hand and flipped through the air. But Gawain retained his weapon.

“Aw . . . do you not wish to joust at all?” Gawain called.

But Allen would not be roused to anger. No, he must maintain his focus and bring this fool down. He had not remembered just how skilled Sir Gawain was. His confidence wavered, but he could not leave Gwendolyn victim to this fiend.

From the side of his eye, he noticed a splash of lavender kerchief waving in the breeze.

“Wait!” Gwendolyn's beloved voice called from his previous seat next to the Duchess Adela. “Sir Allen, please wait.”

The duchess held up a hand to pause the proceedings.

He trotted her direction.

Then Gwendolyn, clinking in her chain mail, leaned over the rail to offer it to him.

As he reached to take it, she caught his eye, and he gave her his full attention.

“Gawain always lifts his lance too high just before he strikes,” Gwendolyn whispered. “Lean in low and take him out before he has a chance to right it. And do it on the very next pass. He must not have time to adjust to your correction.”

“Are you certain?” The strategy would not be the wisest in
normal circumstances. But he had barely been able to watch throughout the morning as Gawain defeated knight after knight. Gwendolyn might well be correct.

“Yes, I am certain. I have studied him closely, as if my life depended on it.” She shot him a significant glance.

Her life indeed depended on it. And of course he must trust her judgment in this matter.

He saw in her eyes that he could trust her in all matters.

“Enough flirtation! You shall be my wife soon, and I shall tolerate none of it!” Gawain bellowed. “Let this match resume!”

Allen nodded his affirmation to Gwendolyn. She squeezed her hands together and nodded as well. He spied the trust, the hope, the faith shining in her eyes. He tucked the kerchief into his sleeve, and then he trotted to his spot and prepared to battle Gawain.

As he leveled his lance and lowered his visor, time slowed. The roaring crowds dimmed. The broad expanse about him pulled in to a single target. Until only he, only Gawain, existed.

Spurring his horse, he clamped the lance tight to his side, aiming it straight for Gawain's stone-hard heart. The horse leapt forward, step by step, in rhythm with the pounding of Allen's own heart that echoed in his helmet. Forward, always, one hoof and then the other.

As he reached a point only several yards off, Allen noted the precise anomaly Gwen had predicted. Gawain lifted his lance just a touch. Allen crouched low and dug his heels into his horse's side to command an extra burst of speed.

Before Gawain could right his hold, Allen's lance pierced straight into the inch of space to the side of his shield, slamming into his chest and splintering upon the impact.

Gawain howled even as he flew backward, flipped through the air, and landed with a clash like cymbals upon the ground.

It was over. Allen had won. And Gwendolyn had showed him the way. They had done it.

Together.

He dragged air into his lungs and circled about pumping the remnants of his lance overhead as the crowd went wild.

Gawain staggered to his feet and drew his sword. He tossed off his helmet and looked about with blood trickling down his cheek. When he spotted Allen safe upon his horse, he howled yet again, fell to his knees, and beat the ground with his gloved fist.

Swept upon the glorious tide of victory, Allen approached the duchess and Gwendolyn, both beaming at him with sheer, unadulterated joy.

“Sir Allen,” the duchess called, “I declare you the victor.”

His chest swelled to twice its normal size and pressed against his hauberk. This was the moment he had dreamed of.

The duchess took Lady Gwendolyn's hand in her own and raised it over their heads.

“And this is your prize.”

Never such a glorious, perfect, enchanting prize had Allen ever dared imagine. A tall, fair woman dressed in chain mail with a golden braid hanging down her shoulder. His heart sped even more than it had during the joust. His mind flashed to that wondrous kiss in the yew tree outside her castle wall. To the perfect fit of her lips against his.

“Whom shall you choose to wed the Lady Gwendolyn Barnes?” The duchess smiled down sweetly to him.

Of course she expected him to speak Sir Randel Penigree's name. He had been their agreed-upon choice all along.

But Allen's heart clutched. His throat went dry. His lips tightened and refused to speak the words.

The duchess awaited, looking at him with anticipation. Sir
Randel grinned with excitement. Randel, who admired Gwendolyn but admitted he did not quite love her.

Gwendolyn pressed a hand to her mouth. She alone understood what this next utterance would cost Sir Allen of Ellsworth, who knew himself to be the best possible match in all creation for one Lady Gwendolyn Barnes, yet was being forced by fate to wed another.

He could not bring himself to call Randel's name. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Allen sighed. “Allow me a moment of respite. This all came about suddenly. I would consider my options first.”

Though he could imagine no option that might provide a balm for his throbbing soul.